I have a little tradition to search for handmade jewelry when I travel, usually rings or earrings. It’s my favorite way to bring home a piece of where I’ve been. Since I just visited New Mexico for the first time to join my family in celebrating my cousin’s wedding, I was especially excited to see what I’d find because I love southwestern jewelry designs. My mom (who also uses a wheelchair), my dad, and I ventured to Old Town in Albuquerque one afternoon to look around and when we reached the first shop, Native Gallery, I was immediately drawn to rows of earrings and beautiful pottery.

Not even 10 seconds after entering the shop, I gravitated toward some rainbow bowls in the front of the store and was already contemplating buying one when the shopkeeper came over to my family and said “there’s no room for you here.”

Mind you, the aisles were a bit narrow but I have the depth perception to know my wheelchair would fit through and the common sense not to drive like a wild woman through a store full of valuable breakables. There was undeniably room for us. So, I began to explain that we were fine and would be very careful, but the shopkeeper again insisted there was “no room” for us and demanded we leave.

My dad, who was standing up and is obviously taller than me, could plainly see the shopkeeper was lying about the lack of space. In fact, aside from the one couple he was ringing up, there wasn’t a single other customer in the store. There was plenty of room. Based on the look of horror on the shopkeeper’s face when he saw two wheelchair users roll through the entrance, the urgency with which he jumped up to ask us to leave, and his persistent arguing that we couldn’t stay, it was clear he just didn’t want us to patronize his shop, or assumed we’d cause damage, and so he thought it best to kick us out rather than finding a way to accommodate us.

I sort of get it, maybe. Power wheelchairs in a store full of fragile pottery are risky and the shopkeeper wanted to protect his goods, but the reality is that anyone could accidentally break something. At the very least, he could’ve offered to bring some pieces to the front for us. But no matter how many times we pointed out that turning disabled people away from your public business is discriminatory and illegal, the shopkeeper ultimately forced us away.

I just wanted to buy a ring. I wanted a taste of what New Mexico has to offer. I wanted to enjoy the late afternoon sun and the colorful boutiques with my parents. I love exploring new places. Yet it seems every time I try to embrace my independence like any other human being, someone stops me in my tracks and reminds me that disabled people are still not fully welcome in this world we inhabit.

In most cases, it’s structural barriers that prove unwelcoming. Steps and narrow entryways are warning signs to stay away. Because of this, I’m generally inclined to give my business to places where the architecture isn’t keeping me out. Of course, there are plenty of instances where I take one look at a place and can tell there’s no way I will actually be able to navigate safely or easily. But I have learned to make my way around in environments not designed with accessibility in mind. I have learned how to weave through curves and make sharp turns, how to roll forward at just the right angle and slip through tight spaces. Within the realms of accessibility, where I go is my decision to make.

And so, even as the sting of this encounter flowed through me, I was still determined to find a ring. We went to a shop around the block called de Colores Galleria. There, the owner was lovely, accommodating my mom and I as we narrowed down our jewelry options, never making us feel as though we were unwelcome or in the way.

While she helped us, my mom shared with the woman behind the jewelry counter what had happened at the other shop. The woman was mortified, apologizing on behalf of Old Town. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “That’s not good for Old Town. And that’s not good for you.” We appreciated that, and thanked her profusely for her hospitality before we left.

My mom and I felt compelled to thank the second shopkeeper because her kindness was such a refreshing change from our first encounter. That said, we were essentially thanking this woman for treating us like people. It’s a painful reality of my existence that I find myself expressing gratitude when people communicate with me in such a way that shows they see me as deserving of equality and respect.

As I sat down to recount this shopping debacle in writing, my stomach tightened at the thought that issues such as this – the ones I so desperately wish to see eliminated – are the ones on which I’ve built a platform and a career. The frequency with which I experience and write about ableism has become a twisted form of job security, because deep down I know I will never run out of stories to share. And yet, what I would give for an end to the writing fodder, as it would mean a world finally without encountering discrimination.

I am tired of the days when simple moments of enjoying life are shattered by someone else’s lack of understanding and acceptance. I am a tireless activist, but I am still tired.

I kept the ring that I picked from the second shop on my finger as I wrote this. It now has a place as one of the most bittersweet pieces in my collection, but I treasure it. I will wear it with joy not only because it is a reminder to keep up the fight even when I feel defeated, but also because of the other memories it holds: eating raspberries straight from the bush in my family’s backyard, the hazy mountain view surrounding us, twirling around the dance floor with my dad at my cousin’s wedding, peering out of a tram with my family as it reached 10,378 feet, and – most beautiful of all – being with people I love, who love me, and who welcome and accept me as I am.

Did I say I bought one ring? Okay, I meant two rings. And two pairs of earrings…

I wish I’d kept a record of all the questions, comments, and reactions I’ve gotten since I first began the process of learning how to drive. From total disbelief to utter fascination, people are unendingly taken by the fact that I can get from point A to point B behind the wheel of a vehicle. And I can sort of understand why. It’s not like you can just go into a local car dealership and pick out a van like mine. I have an adapted 2014 Honda Odyssey, fully customized to meet my needs, and people are always curious to know more about the van and how I use it.

In parking lots, while I’m entering or exiting my van, people tend to outright stare. More often than not, the staring is followed by an inquiry as to whether I need help. While I know people are well-meaning, the offers of help are actually a bit funny to me. I mean, why would I have driven somewhere on my own only to end up alone in a parking lot if I couldn’t even get myself out of the van?

Aside from the questions about the mechanics of how I drive, I’m quite frequently asked about the process I went through to learn to drive, and how I afforded the driving lessons and adapted equipment. I wish I could say it was all a breeze, but the process was long, drawn out, and a lot of work. That being said, it was all worth it.

I cannot recommend strongly enough to anyone disabled who is looking to drive to seek assistance from vocational rehabilitation (VR). My local VR office played a key role in my efforts to become a driver, funding both the lessons and the adapted equipment. I was able to receive this kind of financial support because VR programs assist disabled people in pursuing career goals, and part of my plan for developing my career was learning to drive so I could travel independently for work.

It can’t be overstated how immensely helpful it was to receive the financial aid. That being said, at least in my case, other than monetary assistance, VR left me on my own. It was up to me and my family to figure out how I’d get to and from driving lessons and how to pay for the actual van.

First, I had to have an evaluation to ensure that I would be able to drive, and if so, what equipment I’d need. After that, I had to wait until a spot opened up in my driving instructor’s schedule, since he is one of the only people where I live who’s specially trained to teach disabled people to drive with adapted equipment. When lessons finally began, they were five days a week, an hour per day, and the school is located about an hour from my house. So, my dad had to leave work early, drive me to my lesson, wait an hour while I had my lesson, and then drive me home. It was a three hour commitment every day for nearly four months. It’s not like I could drive myself to my lessons, and the school was too far for local paratransit to bring me. Ironic, isn’t it, that transportation was one of the biggest challenges?

After I finally passed my road test (on the second try), it took nearly a year (yes, seriously) to actually get my van. Most people can go to a dealership and bring home a car of their choosing on the same day, but the process of purchasing my van and waiting for all of the equipment to be added felt like a lifetime.

Before I could even think about buying a van, I had to await a bidding process. Since VR was funding the adapted equipment, multiple modification companies that are local to me bid for the job, and the lowest bidder won. Then, I was given exactly three options for vehicles, because only certain vans can accommodate the adapted equipment I need. I was told I could choose to drive a Toyota Siena, a Dodge Grand Caravan, or a Honda Odyssey. I picked the Honda because it looked the least like a soccer mom’s van. Instead of getting the van directly through a Honda dealership, I went through the company that would be doing the adaptive modifications. And I chose to buy a new model in the hopes that the investment would pay off by preventing me from needing repairs on a used vehicle. (So far, that’s been a good decision. Knock on wood). Several months later, my van was ready to come home with me. Truthfully, I barely remembered how to drive by the time I finally got behind the wheel again, but a little practice got me back to where I needed to be to get on the road safely.

Okay, by now, I’m a little worried I might have left you feeling a bit discouraged. Please don’t be. I wanted to paint an honest picture of my experience so that anyone who wants to embark on the adapted driving process has a better idea of what to expect. I’ve heard similar anecdotes from other drivers with disabilities, but in the end, the consensus is that the process leads to gaining freedom and independence that will change your life. It certainly changed mine.

My story and ability to drive is far from unique, and yet drivers with disabilities seem to remain a phenomenon and source of curiosity. So, I decided to make a video to demonstrate how my adapted van works and to answer some FAQ, such as:

I woke up last weekend with sharp pain in my left ear, realized my regular doctor’s office was closed, and decided to hop in my van to head over to a local walk-in clinic. I don’t find anything particularly out of the ordinary about the fact that I handled this situation, but the doctor I saw did. After a quick look in both ears, the doctor (who I’d never met before) began peppering me with nosy questions that were completely irrelevant to treating my newly diagnosed ear infection.

“How did you get here?”

“Oh, so you can put your wheelchair in your car by yourself?”

And my personal (least) favorite: “Who do you live with?”

None of these questions were necessary in determining I needed a prescription for antibiotics, and yet the doctor persisted. Her face and tone made it pretty obvious that she was doubtful of my independence and ability to pursue my own medical care, despite the fact that I was clearly by myself and already right in front of her. Then, as I got ready to leave the exam room, the doctor practically lunged at me to try to help me put my coat on and acted as though I’d offended her when I told her I could do it myself.

On the flip side of the skeptics I encounter, there are tons of people who find my independence inspiring. I recently went to a dentist appointment and just as I finished up at the check-out desk, the receptionist asked, “Is someone already here to pick you up?” When I said no, and that I’d driven myself there, she said “WOW! I can barely get myself out of the house in the morning. It’s amazing that you got yourself here.” And then, of course, she tried to help me put my coat on.

This happens to me everywhere. People constantly treat me as though my independence can’t possibly be real. Here’s another perfect example: I’ll be minding my own business, getting in or out of my van in the middle of a parking lot, and a person will come rushing over to ask if I need assistance. I sincerely wonder why the people who ask me this don’t stop to consider the very obvious fact that I clearly got in my vehicle and drove there on my own. Really – if I got to my destination in the first place, I can do the same in reverse. I have a handle on it. Promise!

Whether people are dubious or inspired, their comments, questions, and offers of help always stem from the same basic assumptions about disabled people – that we’re not entitled to any privacy regarding how we go about our daily lives, and that we’re incapable of autonomous actions. This drives me up the wall.

Seriously, wouldn’t it bug you if the things you did every day were constantly questioned, or if people fawned over you just for doing something as simple as going to the doctor or running an errand? Or if people frequently assumed you couldn’t figure things out on your own?

So, here’s my philosophy on independence, and this extends to people of all abilities, disabled or not: Regardless of how people do things – whether they had help eating their breakfast or did it on their own, or whether they got a ride or drove somewhere on their own – it’s not anyone’s business. I don’t applaud random people for getting out of bed in the morning, nor do I ask how they did it. I just accept that it happened, because that’s how life rolls.

P.S. Related to this topic…check out the 2nd episode of my new podcast that I’m making with my friend Kyle, The Accessible Stall. The episode focuses on assumptions people make about disabled people, independence, and whether they need help. And let me know your thoughts on the subject!